


Better Than A Wife

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leather boots and leather gauntlets by the sea</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than A Wife

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolivingman**](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/) for beta duty. Originally written for the [](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/)**aos_challenge** prompt "Boots".
> 
> Originally posted 7-9-07

Bush doesn’t look around, doesn’t need to. He knows this place as well as any other, filled with sailors too long at sea and soldiers too long at war and women too long in the tooth. The ale suffices though, so he sits back and drinks it carefully, measuring every sip against the money in his purse and debating on which pleasure should earn what little he has left.

Most of the prize money he had in his purse went home to Chichester to his sisters, no doubt not enough, but more than his usual portion sent home. The rest, what does not line his pockets now, was spent in the cobblers shop purchasing the dark leather boots that seem ill-suited against his worn but well-kept uniform.

Still, Bush could think of no better way to commemorate the hard-won gain than to feel it with every step, remind himself of the victory with the clean smell of leather, remember battle and smoke and fire every day as he dresses like an ancient warrior girding himself for battle. He chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head, wondering where such fanciful notions come from and what might be in the ale to make him think such.

“Such fancy boots, Sir.”

He looks up, surprised at the voice. Not that a woman would speak to him – the women here will speak to anyone, old or ugly, so long as they are not dead – but that anyone has. He has sat alone all evening, away from the louder patrons and more raucous crowd. Even more surprising is the woman.

Her red hair falls in large, soft curls to her shoulders, set off by her pale skin. Her dress is the same faded blue as his uniform, and fits her far better than any tailor managed to clothe him. The hint of perfume cuts through the dust and ale of the room and taunts his nose, the scent soft and light and warm as a woman.

Her shoe touches the sole of his boot, her foot dainty next to his. “Polished to a shine that puts the sun to shame.” She sits at the table with him, her skirts and petticoats brushing over the top of his boot. “My mother once told me that a man in polished boots was a gentleman and should not be trusted.”

“Gentlemen should not be trusted?”

“Oh, no, Sir.” She smiles at him, resting one elbow on the table as she leans in, the creamy slope of her breast framed by the lace collar of her dress. “A gentleman who spends that much time on his boots has other things on his mind than a woman.”

“I spend all my time thinking about women.” He leans in, pushing aside his mug to decrease the distance between them. “Women who only like that my polished boots mean that I will take equally good care of them.”

She reaches out, her fingers tracing over the back of his hand. “You’re a good sailor then. Keep her outfitted in the finest sails and the prettiest paints?” Her smile is infectious, and Bush can feel himself leaning in closer still. “Powder and polish like a proper lady so all the men will want her?” She shakes her head, her smile widening. “Though a real ship is more like a proper whore, isn’t she? All the men want to take her. Or better, a lady and a whore. A lady for the rest, polished and pristine, and a whore for you, doing everything you want of her.”

Bush laughs again. “Is that a proper woman then? A lady and a whore?”

“Well, sir. I imagine that’s what all men would want if they could have it, though I find most ladies find it beneath them to be a whore, even in the privacy of their own boudoir.” She drawls the last word, stealing Bush’s mug and taking a sip from it. He watches her swallow, his eyes tracing the path of her neck. “Of course, a woman who is a lady wants things – a proper husband, money, jewels, clothing, children.”

“I have four sisters and, save the first and the last, provide all those to them already.”

“So you have no need of a lady then, other than the one you sail.”

“No.” Bush takes the mug back and takes a drink of his own, licking his lips of the foam as he sets it back on the table. “No need of a lady.”

She stands and reaches down, trailing her finger along Bush’s jaw. “Then it seems to me the only thing you’re missing is a whore.”

He catches her wrist, holding it loosely, his thumb rubbing over the beat of her pulse. “Is that how it seems? Because it seems to me that I’ve caught one.” He looks up the length of her arm and raises his eyes to her. “Though I could not help but notice your boots as well. Polished to a shine. Perhaps you have more on your mind than a man?”

“I polish my boots, Sir, so that when I lift up my dress, you get a hint of what you’re going to get.” She cocks an eyebrow at him, invitation plain in her eyes. “Perhaps you weren’t paying proper attention. Shall we try it again somewhere with less distraction?”

Bush gets to his feet, easing his hand along the small of her back. She smiles at him, her breath catching slightly as he leans in close, mouth just above hers. “I do hope your mother told you that a man who spends that much money on his boots likely doesn’t have much in his purse for other pleasures.”

“She did, Sir.” She laughs and he can taste it on his lips. “But some men, even those with polished boots, are worth accepting what little coin they have and taking the rest in trade.”

“Trade?” Bush guides her toward the stairs, glad he’d secured his room before venturing into town for his boots. “I fear I have nothing to trade.”

“You have a room and a bed.” She smiles up at him again. “And as I see it, Sir, more than enough to keep me busy in both all night long.”  



End file.
